Adventure in a laundromat.
Wandering back in just as my wash was finished, grocery bags hanging from my arms, backpack brimming, an older woman with a neck brace held the door open for me and made a joke about how I'm doing too many things at once.
"I always seem to be doing that" laughed I, and we started talking, sheets tumbling in the dryer, I on my bruised knees trying to pack a few more groceries into my backpack to make the trip down the block easier with the laundry load.
I showed her the beautiful leeks I found at the market, the long brave celery stems, the awkwardly white chicken with it's neck dangling at that horrible angle that's going to be dinner for the neighbourhood kids tonight.
We talked of Paris, life too fast and too hard, talked of my avoidance of television, of my visiting cat and her daughter's little yappy dogs that are hanging out at her place while her daughter's off in the same alps I'd just returned from.
She was surprised at my great bunch of fresh thyme, I told her of my plans to make a proper proven�al chicken and try to trick my friends into eating vegetables by filling the sauce with julienned carrots and leeks and courgettes, and how I cheat by flavouring the rice with chicken broth and saffron.
I told her of my secret asparagus salmon rolls, and how one day when I have four hours I'd like to stew a proper boeuf bourguignon.
Her favourite recipe.
An hour later, laundry better folded than it's ever been, the recipe for the bourguignon was well laid out in my head, wine dosages and precisely which kind of rose potatoes and at which point in the four hours to dump in the carrots and how to sprinkle overtop just a wee bit of flour and fold it in to thicken the sauce.
She helped me fold the sheets, crisp and neat and laughed about how embarassing it is to drop underwear on the laundromat floor.
We live on the same street, know the secrets of the same stores, fresh market stands, who has fresher vine-ripened tomatoes and who has the best roblochon and hand-churned butter blocks.
She thanked me for my smile, I couldn't find the right moment to thank her for her kind words, her warmth.
I promised to find her again and tell her how the boeuf bourguignon worked out.
Later that night when my internet connection went down again, my smtp server still not up and a long queue of e-mail waiting to brighten so many Tuesdays, my cousine Helene called back to chat some more, and I told her of the lady at the laundromat and she announced
"You've got it right. For you, even a trip to the laundromat becomes an adventure."
I told her I was looking forward to having her over tonight, to introduce her to the chocolate fondue, kiwis and strawberries and pears and bananas already chopped and laid out in my tiny fridge.
I spoke to my boss at work and when I come in to sign that contract on Wednesday afternoon, he's going to try to finagle my days so that I can be back in Paris in time to leave for Chamonix.
There is sunshine bouncing from the walls of my cour, ten thirty already and I've been up since seven, slicing leeks and carrots and courgettes into long graceful strips and revelling in the bright scent of my kitchen.
When Cristal called to check on the time for tonight and told me she'd dreamed of my kitchen, the cold of the unheated evening was pushed away, only one person missing for utter serenity (and as many more of you as I can pack in).
We'll be drinking a hundred toasts to you tonight, David, to short contracts and the time when I can put you to work julienning vegetables with me, to your rock shows and the way the lights dance on your face on the stage.
Perhaps it is the influence of Banana Yoshimoto on that train-ride back from Germany, or perhaps I am simply learning to find pleasures in the confines of this city, but my shower is steaming for me and my home is a beautiful place.
Dawn every morning becomes all the more glorious, and I'm no longer fighting it. Not all of it, at least.